Heaven's Conscripts
by Odon
Summary: Some things don't change in a hundred years. The beauty of the Dolomites, the brutality of war, a cause that isn't worth the price.


Title: Heaven's Conscripts

Author: Odon

Rated: M. Drama.

Fandom: Gunslinger Girl.

Summary: Some things don't change in a hundred years. The beauty of the Dolomites, the brutality of war, a cause that isn't worth the price.

Warning: Contains violence and coarse language.

Disclaimer: Gunslinger Girl is the creation of Yu Aida. No profit is intended in the writing of this story. The Italian government denies using cyborg children to assassinate enemies of the state.

Archiving is welcome, but please try and contact me first. My thanks to Nachtsider for his beta work.

* * *

**HEAVEN'S CONSCRIPTS**

Rico stood on the edge of infinity and imagined herself flying.

A mere step away the ground dropped hundreds of metres to the pine forest below, where the solitary chalet looked smaller than a doll's house. Above her Rico could see the grey slab of the mountain continuing all the way to the clouds, which broke in silent waves against the impassive features. She felt a tiny thing, perched like a bird on this limestone outcrop, the remains of a gun emplacement hewn from the rock by Austrian sappers a century ago. From her vantage point the awe-struck cyborg could see three mountain ranges, capped with snow even in summer. She could see the silver lines of rivers and roads, the dark haze of rainfall on distant fields. The sky was ultramarine, the air smelt of thyme and tingled against her skin.

Rico had witnessed a universe of wonders since the Agency had gifted her with a bio-mechanical body, but nothing like this. She had known that Heaven was full of beautiful things, but assumed that meant mountains of gelato and cake, red-tiled roofs and the smell of clean linen, all her friends living and dead united where they could run and play and drink tea forever. Here there was just herself with the whole world laid out before her, and a silence only enhanced by the thermal updrafts rushing across the cliff face in a permanent sigh of ecstasy.

Several hours ago there had been the crackle of distant autofire and the muffled crump of mortar blasts. Rico had crouched on the outcrop, peering through the telescopic sight of a fifty-calibre PGM Hecate II. She didn't like the rifle. It was more awkward to handle than her Dragunov, albeit with over twice the range. And the Hecate was cursed; it had belonged to Elsa, one of the People You Must Not Talk About, like Captain Raballo when Claes was near.

The Hecate now rested on its bipod, well away from the coiled nylon rope Rico had hooked to anchor points in the rock. She never had a chance to use it anyway. The smoke from the mortar bombs had obscured most of the action, only terse radio chatter revealing how men and girls were killing each other far below.

Then came the mopping up, and the questions from Jean she'd been unable to answer. Rico peered at treetops and trails until her eyes watered, searching for the ones who had gotten away. It was only when she removed the scope to rub her eyes that Rico saw them. Three figures, making their way up a cleft of rock that concealed them from her colleagues.

There had been a curt acknowledgement from Jean, then her orders, then nothing to do but wait.

Men had died here before, Rico knew; their names were carved on the rocks around her. Schmitt, Latschneider, Kamil, Monelli, Parro; there was even a Croce. Mr Ricci had said they were conscripts, taken from their homes and forced to fight and die for a cause they didn't understand. "Just like you," he'd said, patting her head. "And it was all for nothing, because the Austro-Hungarian Empire would have broken up anyway, and Italy could have gotten Trento and Trieste without a million men spilling their guts over these mountains." This had started a ferocious argument with Mr Mancini all of which went over her head, except for the rude comments they'd made about each other's parents.

Over the incessant sigh of the wind came discordant sounds: the clink of metal on stone, a muffled curse. Rico tightened the straps on her helmet, then checked her rope, threading it through the figure-eight descender on her climbing harness.

A leather glove appeared over the edge, groping blindly for a handhold. Rico stared in fascination as the fingers walked spider-like across the rocks, testing them for strength before clutching at a thin crevice. With an explosive grunt of effort, a man hauled his upper body onto the outcrop. Middle-aged, with a heavily-lined face and greying hair cropped in a military-style crew-cut. He wore an Alpino camouflage jacket and no climbing helmet, his harness improvised with loops of nylon tape. His breath was laboured in the thin air as he pulled himself fully onto the rocks, a black rope trailing behind him. Then he looked up and froze in place.

"Good morning," said Rico. It was important to remember your manners.

"WE'VE GOT COMPANY! LITTLE GIRL COMPANY!"

"I've been told to ask for the identity and location of your cell liaison officer," said Rico, smiling to put him at ease. "And they want to know where you got the Hir-ten-ber-ger mortar," she added, carefully enunciating the unfamiliar word.

The grey-haired man closed his eyes, his whole body sagging. There was a Steyr AUG strapped to his back, the magazine well gaping empty. Rico could see the outline of an automatic pistol under his jacket, but he'd have to undo several buttons to get at it.

"Piss off," he whispered.

Rico kicked him in the face.

His head flew back, the nose spurting blood. Hands clawed at the rock, fingernails tearing as they slipped from their hold and gravity pulled him back over the edge. Quick as a striking cobra, Rico darted forwards and seized a flailing hand, feeling the bones snap under the weight of the man's body. She held him suspended over the precipice as he kicked and screamed. Other screams came from below, along with curses and abuse.

_"Mother of God! Leave him alone, you hellbitch!"_

_"Shoot her dammit!"_

_"I can't! Adamo's in the way!"_

Rico ignored them, listening only to the voice in her earpiece. "Please sir, where did you get the mortar?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" shrieked Adamo. "NESTORE! ASK NESTORE!"

"Who's Nestore?"

_"I'm down here! Come and get me, bitch!"_

"Thank you," she said, and let him go.

Adamo's scream lasted until he came to an abrupt halt at the end of his tether, spinning and bouncing against the rockface. The climbers grabbed for the nearest handhold as chocks and pitons shot free under the strain. Rico drew her CZ-75 and leapt into the void, laughing in sheer delight. _I can fly!_

Her boots hit rock and she flung herself out again, the rope hissing through the descender as she abseiled the cliff, face-down in the Australian style. Rico saw the pale up-turned faces of the other two terrorists, the crests of trees and tiny buildings far, far below and deep in her mind a child whimpered in terror as the rocks erupted with the savage crescendo of autofire, bullets shrieking past in wild ricochets. Something smashed into her ribs with the impact of a sledgehammer until the synthetic musculature compensated, boosting Rico's lungpower and flooding the area with pain inhibitors. The child drowned in the amorphous flood of conditioning; Rico arrested her descent and sighted with sociopathic calm, her thoughts bright and clear as the mountain air. The world spun ninety degrees: the cliff was a firing range and the distant ground a mere backdrop.

The target was a girl, Rico noted: young and pretty like a ponytailed Petra, she clung to the rockface with one hand and fired a Glock 18 with the other, trying in vain to hold the machine pistol on target as it bucked against her grip. Rico squeezed off a double-tap and watched the delicate features break apart under the hollowpoints, feeling a surge of delight at a job well done; she bounded towards the third terrorist with love in her heart.

Nestore struggled to free his Steyr AUG with fingers made clumsy by fear and fatigue. There were two bodies hanging from the rope above, straining the few remaining anchor points, but he had to trust his life to the rope to free his hands. Even then his efforts were futile; the rifle was entangled inside his backpack and he gave up when the _munaciello_ rappelled down beside him.

"Hello, sir. Could you please tell me the identity and location of your cell liaison officer?"

In a mind numb with terror, Nestore tried to recall what the man in the wheelchair had taught them about the child-killers of that bitch Petris. All he could recall was: "go for the eyes." She had beautiful eyes, he was surprised to see; innocent and blue as cornflowers. But everything looks beautiful when you're close to death.

"I have a daughter your age," said Nestore, letting a hand drop to his waist on the side facing away from her. By touch he found the piton hammer hanging from his belt.

"What's her name?" asked Rico, though it wasn't one of the questions she was supposed to ask.

"Adelina," Nestore replied, curling his fingers around the rubber grip, turning it so the pick-head would be facing outward. "I'll tell you everything. I want to see her again. I don't want to die on this godforsaken mountain."

Nestore let the pack and rifle slip from his grasp, falling to the ground far below. As the girl's eyes moved to follow it he swung the hammer into her face with all his strength and she SCREAMED like Adelina when she'd caught her thumb in the car door... Nestore flinched in horror before gritting his teeth and lashing out again but that moment of hesitation was enough to doom him. As the pick swung down at her other eye, Rico's hand shot up and caught it in her palm, twisting it from his grasp with the ease of a girl plucking a flower.

"Oh shit."

"You shouldn't use rude words," said Rico. Blood and viscous fluid dripped from the ruins of her right eye, the other staring back at Nestore with the certitude of a mad oracle.

She used the hammer to good effect on his joints while relaying the questions from her handler. When Jean was satisfied she drove it into Nestore's forehead and worked her way up the cliff freehand to the grey-haired man, the one the others had called Adamo.

Adamo watched her approach with an equal measure of fear and fascination. When Rico was only a few metres away he unlocked his carabineer and let himself fall. This time there was no scream.

_"Incompetent,"_ stated the cold voice in Rico's ear. _"I expect better of my cyborg. Retrieve your equipment and return to the chalet."_

"Yes sir."

It took Rico a long time to comply with her orders. First she had to climb back up to the overhang where she'd left the sniper rifle, stopping at intervals due to moments of dizziness and blinding flashes of pain. Once she was there Rico chipped the names of the three terrorists she'd killed into the rock. She didn't know the woman's name, so she wrote "Adelina" instead.


End file.
